his lips are the ellipses between my clumsy words.

I tell him I like you too but what I mean is

I’m two beers away from calling him God,

a glass of wine away from losing

all feeling in the upper hand.

the folds of my body open like

evening primrose, like petals thrown

on dishevelled mattress, pinot noir languor,

murmuring to the candles, to myself, to all

that is melting and wavering

to lie still for him.

change fell from his pockets as I watched him get dressed

and he left it on the nightstand like payment.

he told me I was perfect, but what isn’t

perfect by candlelight?

he keeps me like a wildflower in tap water,

like half-finished poetry. I keep him like

a spellbook under my mattress.

what is an affair but looking

for a self you lost in someone else?




Rebecca Kokitus is a part time resident of Media, PA just outside Philadelphia, and a part time resident of a small town in rural Schuylkill County, PA. She is an aspiring poet and is currently an undergraduate in the writing program at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. She has been previously published by Philosophical Idiot, Lemon Star Mag, and Show Your Skin Journal. She tweets at @rxbxcca_anna.


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